Breakable

by rheeb

A part of me feels like I’m losing it. I miss writing, and I just got the epiphany that I write because I feel like no one listens to me. It’s a glorified way of me talking to myself.

Lately, I have been debating whether or not to see a therapist. I have been in a lot of physical pain, and I’m pretty certain that it’s not for physical reasons. The whole thing about it is that I feel like no one can help me. I feel almost hopeless in terms of whether or not a psychologist will be knowledgeable enough to help me move forward in my life.

And I feel so alone. I don’t feel like I can even talk to anyone about my loneliness without getting some kind of recommendation as to what I should do to cure it. I haven’t felt comfortable opening my heart to anyone, and it seems like when I do, I am met with an unfavorable reaction.

My back has been hurting lately to the point where I literally feel like it’s going to break. Like, seriously break in half…as though my bones are as weak as glass. All my days feel the same. I feel directionless. One thing I have been doing, though, is writing down my dreams. They have been so odd this entire month, so I wake up and write them down, because I feel like I’ll get the answers later.

I feel trapped. No plan of action feels attainable.

I had a moment earlier today where I made a choice to stop speaking except to myself, my dog, and God. I don’t feel like whatever I’d say would be worth saying to anyone else. I feel like no one cares. I did decide to respond to questions though, because I’m not an asshole.

The other day, I cried so hard that I didn’t think I was ever going to stop. I’m so serious, too. Actually, it was two days. The first day, I wailed while apologizing to God for being so fat. I don’t know why I did this, but I just couldn’t stop saying how sorry I was. I felt it was necessary. The second day, I was crying so hard that I just happened to walk past a mirror during the process, and I scared the shit out of myself. I had never seen myself that way.

I’m afraid of time–so much so that entertaining the thought of death seems easier. If I were a car, I feel like I’m in the emergency lane during a huge winter storm with a dead battery and no cell phone. Yes, I feel like that car.

I drove past Fundie Academy the other day and saw that the stained glass burst out of the building during one of the recent storms. There is a blue tarp covering the whole thing now, which is great. I also saw the steeple mangled and laying in front of it. Such a metaphor. And, in addition to that, those cheap bastards have “Jesus is Ord” written on the marquee. Yes, you read that right–“Ord.” Guess they couldn’t afford the “L.”

I don’t know what to do. I mean, seriously. I don’t have a clue.

Blogging to me is like being in a cave, digging in my pocket to find a match, and then striking it on the wall near me. Thank God, I can see with a little more clarity right now. I mean that, too. It’s still dark in here, though.

It’s possible that I could be depressed, but how can any doctor help that? How could any pill help that?